The Vanishing
by AceTrainerMitsy
Summary: It's a wonder that he hasn't driven himself to insanity with the amount of responsibility he willingly holds above his shoulders. Kyoya X OC, drabble-ish, rated T for implied themes


A/N: Another one-shot I wrote for homework. (Assignment: "Using Hemingway's sense of style [iceberg moments, short sentences, simple diction, symbolic weather, subtle emotions, etc.] write a short story on any topic you'd like.") I was originally going to write about the twins, but that plot idea went nowhere fast, and since I have a three-page limit, then I switched gears and wrote an alternate scene that I cut out of a future Ouran fic anyway. It's not even Hemingway style, it only has some style points in it, but in no way is it true to the style which sucks but whatever.

Pairing: Kyoya X OC, 763 words

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_The Vanishing_

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They call him a monster. In a way, he is. He never denies it. The fact is, he is a corporate legend, a manipulative, deceiving beast of a businessman. To the naked eye, he is ruthless to all. But even he, a solitary man, is subject to the toll of life and the pain of loss.

There are a handful of people who know this.

His ragtag group of friends had been by his side since their high school days. He now lives seven thousand miles away from the nearest member of their family, facing the pressures of high society alone. It's a wonder that he hasn't driven himself to insanity with the amount of responsibility he willingly holds above his shoulders.

There's one person he has to thank for that.

It occurs to him on a bleak winter morning, when the breeze nearly manages to make him quake under his dark uniform, that he is walking in no general direction. His car is in some parking lot somewhere, and he figures that it won't be too much of a hassle to find it since everyone else in town seems to have vanished over the holiday season. He glances at the window of a small restaurant and slows to a stop, letting the cloud of his breath linger in front of him for a few moments.

She is sitting in an empty booth, clad in a white dress that dangles in dramatic waves over her legs. A menu obscures her face, but he knows it's her, because he can see the messy bundle she's somehow worked her hair into, an only she can pull it off without looking like they work twenty-four hours, seven days a week. There's something about her presence that calls him, beckons him to join her.

So he walks in to join her before his breath fogs up the window.

There's a silence as he moves to sit across from her, not daring to move closer. She doesn't react, not even moving or saying anything to acknowledge his presence. After a moment passes, she sighs and places the menu down. There's a strange glare in her eyes as she simply asks, "What?"

"Pardon?"

"What do you want? Obviously you didn't come again to eat the French Onion Soup, which, by the way, sucks."

"What are you doing here?"

"Figured you'd have stayed."

The conversation simmers back down to silence. He notices the single red rose situated very pristinely in a thin ivory vase.

"Stop, already," she breathes. "Just get over it. It's not healthy to dwell on this topic for any longer."

"I'm in perfect health, thank you. There's nothing to be concerned about."

"That's bull. I can see the bags under your eyes and the bones jutting out of your face. You're only hurting yourself."

"I fail to see your reasoning. Besides, you've gotten through it on more than one occasion."

"That's different. I was never close to any of them, god forbid. Dad was total control freak and Mom died before I was ever coherent enough to grow attached to her. This. This is different. You're the one who's hurting this time, not me," Her gaze softens, but still holds the odd look he'd noticed before.

"I have other issues to worry about. A corporation to run."

"A business to occupy yourself with until you spiral into the never-ending black hole that is despair. Face it, you were doomed from the moment you got the phone call."

It is somewhat unnerving to be sitting with her in an empty restaurant, where the old waitress glances at him every few moments. If he closes his eyes, they are alone again, free from the constricting boundaries of life and the pressure of high society.

"Perhaps I was," he mutters under gritted teeth, blood boiling under his skin, "but how am I supposed to recover when no one is around to listen the way you did?"

"I can't help you anymore." She smiles faintly. She suddenly looks older, paler than before and his anger subsides. "It's too late. I'm powerless."

"You never were."

"I am now. Understand that."

In the next moment she's gone. His eyes are open and he is only human, subject to the inevitable losses in life and defenseless against reality. The waitress walks over and wordlessly places a glass of wine on his table. His fingers clasp over it, and he gazes at the dark depths.

It is only then, as his reflection trembles in his hold, that he realizes that he is shivering.


End file.
